The Gift
by purple-goose
Summary: “Friend of Shannon. She who is dead. By you, I understand.” Dark. Angst.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **_The Gift (1/ 3)_

**Rating:** _M_

**Summary: _'"_**_Friend of Shannon. She who is dead. By you, I understand."'_

**Featured Characters: **_Sayid, Shannon, Jack, Locke, Kate, Ana-Lucia, Charlie, Claire, Sawyer, Hurley, Jin, Libby, Mistereko_

**Author's Notes/Disclaimer: **_I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Lost". They were created by JJ Abrams and Damon Lindelof and they belong to them, Touchstone, and ABC. _

_Special thanks to WhoKnowsWhy, wonder beta _

"Pretty rich that, you havin' amnesia and all. Ya know, since you doubted Claire havin' it. What do ya think of actual cases of amnesia now, Sayid?"

He glanced up at the voice from his blanket-covered spot on the floor, ending his reverie of the stone walls and the frustrating task of trying to retrieve a memory, any memory, from the blankness that was his mind.

A short blond man, hands stuffed into the pockets of a dirty hooded sweatshirt, stepped furtively into the cave. He scowled and crossed the floor as Sayid pushed using his wrists into a sitting position. He did not need his memories to know to use caution. Not with that tone directed at him.

"Charlie," The English accented voice dripped with derision as he knelt, close enough that Sayid could smell his breath. "I'm Charlie. The not-dad of Aaron. Baby of Claire. She who also had amnesia. Actual amnesia. Friend of Shannon. She who is dead. By you, I understand." The last was delivered almost cheerfully, the anger such a part of the tone that it blended perfectly. The blue eyes glittered as they bore into his.

Sayid drew back, wary. He did not like the pounding of his heart in his chest, the dampness of his palms despite the rags wrapped around his hands. Did he actually hurt someone, this Shannon? Were these symptoms of guilt without the memories? Would his body react when his brain could not?

"You're Sayid. Do ya remember that?" The tone did not lose any of the sarcasm. "Do ya remember killin' Shannon?" Charlie formed with his hands an unmistakably feminine shape. "Tall drink of water, blonde. Stunner, actually. Mean as a snake in broken glass. Tricky bint."

Sayid's stomach tightened, his hands curling into painful fists. He did not remember her. In any capacity. Certainly not killing her. But that meant naught: he remembered nothing. He tried to picture her and stared into a dark tunnel of null

"Forget how to talk, too? Playin' the half naked savage thing pretty hard there, Sayid. Or was the shirt just too bloody to keep on?" Charlie sank back on his heels, hands dangling between his knees, his narrow eyes darting about Sayid's face.

Sayid wondered what the man saw. It clearly did not please the beholder, his blue eyes narrow, his mouth stretched into an ugly frown.

Sayid licked his dry lips. He tried to remember what the other man - the one who said that he was a doctor - had told him. Something about a pursuit, a fall, a death. It was difficult to bring it into focus.

When he had opened his eyes in this dank stone room, he had known nothing: his name; this place; the man who was working in the corner. He had peered fugitively about, the lack of knowledge freezing him with fear and panic. Something had to be familiar. Something.

He must have made a sound for the man had approached him, squatting next to the blanket's edge. The brown eyes had been warm and concerned. "How are you feeling?" The voice, its accent American, had matched the eyes. "Hands bothering you? How's the shoulder?"

Once uttered, the words had become fact. He had become aware of throbbing in his right shoulder, in both hands. He had turned to see the wound, lifting his hand to investigate and stopped mid shoulder, the cloth swaddling it distracting. He looked back to the man.

The face had slipped from friendly to clinical. "Sayid, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"Did he fail to mention how you killed your dearly beloved?" Charlie continued. "With your bare hands, by the look of it. Her long, pretty neck was snapped. Like that!" he snapped his fingers. "Pretty bruised she was, like someone had quite a go at her. Least that's what Jack said 'til you were found. Now he's backin' off a bit" His voice dropped to a low throb, oddly menacing for a man of his stature. "But we know, Sayid. We know you killed her."

He felt pinned to the cool rock pushing against his back. Did he commit the heinous act that this small, grimy man was accusing him?

"Charlie!" The voice was sharp, commanding.

They both looked up as a familiar - at last - shorn dark haired man strode through the arch. Jack? Was that the name?

Sayid glanced at Charlie, curious as to the reason for the doctor's tone.

The young man's face flushed with guilt, quickly replaced by disgust. He turned his attention back to Sayid, his expression darkening. "He can't protect you. Remember that." He rose and stomped to the entry way, blocked by the taller man.

Jack, arms crossed over his chest, frowned deeply. He stopped Charlie with a hand, murmured with some heat while shaking his head. Charlie's glower deepened. He shot a furious look toward Sayid, spat something undecipherable and tramped angrily away.

Jack watched Charlie go, then entered the room. "Did you get any rest?"

Sayid shook his head.

Jack continued to the blanket. He squatted and studied his patient's face His hands were certain and gentle as he inspected Sayid's shoulder. "You and Sawyer will have to compare scars someday." He grinned ruefully. "When you remember who Sawyer is. Does your head still hurt? How's that lump? Any progress on the memory?"

Again, Sayid indicated negative with a small shake.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Do you understand me? Can you speak English?" Concern radiated from the warm eyes as once more they watched Sayid's features. "You haven't said one word since you woke."

Sayid moistened his lips and nodded slowly. "I - I do speak English," and realized as he spoke that he had not been certain of the fact until he heard his own voice, the words. He did not sound like Jack. Or Charlie for that matter.

Jack's face relaxed into a smile. "Good." He returned his attention to the bandages.

"Who - who is Shannon?" Fear clenched his belly and spread swiftly. He blinked. He was very afraid of the man's response.

Jack paused, then resumed tying the cloth around Sayid's left hand. "Do you remember her?" he asked, glancing to catch Sayid's eye.

"Charlie," That name would stay with him. "Said that I - I killed her." His mouth became full of sand. His stomach tightened further. He searched for an answer in Jack's expression.

"Shannon," Jack lowered his gaze, seeming to search for words, his hands dropping loosely to his side.

It grew harder and harder to swallow, to breathe. Sayid felt his pulse in the ache of his shoulder, his hands. He waited, eyes trained on Jack's.

Jack sighed and met Sayid's gaze. "She's - was a young woman, an American. She, ah, was very pretty, um, had a brother, Boone - he died earlier. But not in the crash."

Jack went on to explain a plane crash, mixed with a brief rundown of the some of the survivors that Sayid did not, could not retain, except for the names that Charlie had uttered: Claire, Australian, a young mother; Aaron, her son, born on the island; Charlie, English, Claire's partner; Boone and Shannon, American, no description beyond brother and sister.

The dissertation washed over Sayid. He struggled to absorb the words while his fear cast a deep shadow over comprehension. He waited, trying for patience. Surely, this man would tell him the truth. Then Sayid could concentrate on the rest of this reality. Then it might concern him.

"You and ah Shannon," Jack appeared very uncomfortable. He massaged the back of his neck. "Ah…are - were ahh a couple. You were involved."

Sayid dropped his eyes, attempting to process the information. Was there no straight answer?

"Romantically," offered Jack.

"I understand English as well," replied Sayid, looking past Jack's shoulder, then back to Jack's face. "Did I…..hurt her?"

Jack was reluctant to answer. "We don't know." He contemplated Sayid's foot.

It was a blow to his solar plexus. His head began to buzz and spots danced before him.

Jack grabbed his left forearm as Sayid pitched forward. "You need rest," Sayid heard him say as the doctor eased him onto the blanket.

His head was pounding but was nothing compared to the dread that filled his belly. His mouth was sticky with thirst. He considered not opening his eyes. Perhaps, if he kept his eyes closed and did not drink, it would all go away. He followed that thought no farther. It was idiotic. A small sigh escaped his lips.

"I didn't want to wake up either," The voice sounded young, feminine with an Australian accent. "Well, what I wanted was to wake up and remember everything. Or have everything like I remembered."

She was young, blonde-haired, pretty, and offering a bottle of water. "Neither one has happened. But it does get easier." Her face crinkled in sympathy.

He sat slowly - he was becoming quite accomplished at not using his hands - and accepted the bottle. He fumbled with the lid, the cloth around his hands sliding around the plastic. Frustration bubbled in his throat. The inability to fend for himself would not help his situation. The urge to dash the object into the wall pushed blood to his muscles.

"Here, let me do that," She took the container and nimbly removed the cap. "I forgot about your hands." She smiled, and rolled her eyes. "I didn't have that to deal with at least. But you're not pregnant so it probably washes out."

He dropped his eyes to his hands, flooded with contrition. It was quickly followed with the now familiar fear. Was his temper so bad that mere frustration resulted in rage? Was that why Charlie believed him capable ….of such a violent act? He lifted his eyes to the woman. She was not exhibiting any outward signs of fearing him.

"Here." She presented the open jug, frowned, then helped him support it. "Jack believes in lots of water, no matter what the problem." She smiled, if not warmly, it was friendly. "He's a surgeon, not a regular doctor. He does pretty well and all, but don't go to him with a rash or a stubbed toe. He's not too good with those."

He drank thirstily, forgetting all for a moment as the water slid down his parched throat. He felt it hit his stomach. It had obviously been some time since he had eaten and he wondered momentarily what his last meal had been. He lowered the bottle, releasing it to her care, aware of the woman watching him. Sayid wiped his mouth on the bandage of his right hand and met her candid gaze.

"Did I tell you I'm Claire?" She shifted, plopping onto the rock floor, settling in. "Me, you, and Charlie. We could be a club. The Amnesia Club. Except we'd keep forgetting to come to the meetings." She smiled at her own joke.

Sayid did not offer that he gleaned her identity from Charlie's words. He made to drink again. Claire leaned in, providing aid with a smile.

"I guess you met Charlie." The smile dimmed a bit.

He did not flinch. It was ludicrous, his response to the image evoked.

"He's with Aaron right now. And Sawyer. Aaron's my son," she lowered the bottle, and continued to study him, prattling on comfortably. "And Sawyer…. he's Sawyer. You'll get to know everyone again. It's really rather odd at first, having to learn everyone's names all over. Some people will just tell you, other's you'll have to ask." Her face grew pensive. "People will react differently. Some won't believe you. Try to trick you into remembering something. Some will stare." She sighed deeply and picked at her wrist. "I scolded Shannon for staring." She stared at the floor.

"I am sorry for the death of your friend," Sayid said quietly, as the silence stretched. She was clearly grieving.

She tilted her head and drilled his eyes with hers. "See, I'm doing it. Wondering how you can feel nothing. Well," she blinked rapidly and scanned the cave. "Maybe not nothing. You seem sorry. But for me." She focused on his face again, her lips pulled tight. "How can you not feel sorry for you? For Shannon?" She shuddered, and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "We thought you were dead, too. When you didn't come back."

Jack failed to mention any of that. Pursuit. A fall. A death. He summed it up as a pursuit, a fall, a death. Sayid had asked no questions. Now he wished that he had. Jack's relating could not be as painful as this.

"Everyone said you wouldn't let anything happen to Shannon. So if she was dead…. especially like that," her voice dropped, her view was now internal. "Then you had to be, too." Her sight included him again, as she lifted her small hand to dab her eyes.

He liked that image of him better. The brave and valiant hero, perishing with his lady fair.

"And Charlie says you had to be the one that killed her. Shannon wouldn't let anyone else that close. Not out there. It had to be you," Claire was openly weeping. "She was so ….beat up. You - someone hit her so many times. It had to hurt. She had to be so scared."

His stomach twisted again - tighter - he would be turned inside out soon. He drew the same conclusion that Charlie presented: if Sayid was alive when others expected - knew him dead, it followed that he contributed - killed this Shannon.

Claire crumpled into her hands. Without thought, he crawled to her and cradled her gently, awkwardly smoothing her hair as she leaned into him, her tears hot on as they streaked his good shoulder, her hands against his chest. Quiet tears slid from his eyes. He buried them in her soft hair and wished he could do the same with himself.

"Well now, good thing Chuckles ain't here to see this." Still another accent - how was it that Sayid could identify it as American south?

"Shut up, Sawyer," Claire sniffed and pulled away from Sayid's embrace. "Sayid, this is Sawyer."

A rangy man stood in the lip of the room, arms crossed loosely at his chest, weight on one hip, a smirk marring his face. His hair was long, tangled, a hank over an eye.

Sayid's arms fell emptily to his sides. He felt bereft. He kept his gaze low as he self consciously brushed the dampness on his cheeks.

She turned, scrubbing her cheeks, to glare at the man. Her pale skin was now red, her eyes very blue in contrast. "Now go away."

"Sorry. No can do. HasBeen sent me to get you. Your spawn is squawkin'. Needs a meal." He ambled to the couple and offered Claire a hand. She accepted, smiling warmly up at him, and climbed to her feet. "Go feed that boy."

She turned back to Sayid, "The key is to be upfront. If you want to know, ask. If you don't know, ask. If you don't get an answer, ask someone else." She smiled weakly. "And drink lots of water." She touched Sawyer's arm and hurried from the room.

The two men watched her leave. Sawyer swung his attention to Sayid.

"Heard you got yourself a memory problem." He towered over the seated man.

Another set of blue eyes. If he hadn't met Jack, Sayid would think fair-haired, blue-eyed people inhabited the island. He untangled his legs and made to stand. Half way up, his head spun and he teetered, falling into Sawyer.

"Whoa there, cowboy." A firm handgrip steadied him. "That ain't gonna work." For the second time in this new life, Sayid was eased to the ground, this time to a sitting position, his back pressing against rock as well. "Better?"

Sayid nodded, closing his eyes, hoping the walls that were not supporting his back would stop spinning when he opened them.

"Here," the voice was gruff. "It's what I give to all the swoonin' ladies."

Sayid recognised the weight and shape of a water bottle thrust into his hands. Evidently, Jack was noit the only one who prescribed water. The seated man took several deep breaths and cautiously opened his eyes a slit. When the walls remained still, he opened them completely. The tall man - Sawyer - was squatting mere inches away, his eyes raking Sayid's face.

He was already beginning to tire of the expression - as if by drilling into him with their eyes, Sayid would be unmasked or cured or whatever they were attempting to accomplish. He dropped the water bottle and tried to meet the scrutiny.

"So Mohammud, how's that terrorist cell you got goin' with old baldy?" drawled Sawyer. "Still celebratin' the plane crash?"

Sayid leaned back against the wall, looking up to the cave ceiling. It was exactly like the walls - smooth appearing, dark in color. He looked back to Sawyer and blinked slowly. He didn't need a memory to know that he was being baited.

"What is it about this island, everybody losin' their memory? Maybe I oughta hit ya in the head with a stick, knock it back in, like on TV when I was a kid. That seemed to work. Want hit with a stick, chief?"

Sayid met his gaze levelly. What response would stop this hectoring? Was this a pattern between them? With memories complete, did he find it as tiresome as he was finding it now?

"Hell, you're not gonna be much fun, are ya?" Sawyer stood. "You're a hot topic, know that? Everybody - seriously ev-ree-bod-dee - is weighin' in on your guilt." He grinned. "Or innocence. I figure after you and Sticks had at it," Dimples appeared with the smile as he lightly shook his head. "Ain't much innocence left." He winked, making the gesture salacious.

The smile faded slowly as Sayid did not respond. "Do you remember anything?" The accent was diminished, the mocking tone gone.

Sayid was not convinced of this man's sincerity but shook his head anyway.

"Jack tell you much?" Sawyer's tone shifted to cool.

"He may have. I was disoriented. And...disconcerted when I realized ..."

"Want the short version?"

Sayid weighed the offer: Sawyer did not appear to be a reliable source of information with his barbs, but he was the only one in the room. Sayid nodded. He could ask – following Claire's advice – others for validation.

Sawyer scratched his chin and sighed. "Shannon hightailed it into the jungle after you two had an some sort of spat. Momacita - Claire," he explained at Sayid's puzzled expression. "Heard it - somethin' about Mike's boy." This evoked a sigh and pause as Sawyer's eyes swept the cave. "You lit out after her when she didn't come back in time for lunch. Jack sent Locke and Echo the next mornin' when neither one of you came back. Day after, Locke found her," Sawyer swallowed. "Her body. Had the hell whopped outta her. No sign of you anywhere."

This time, the words did not wash over him. They stung, pricked, slashed at him. He did not know this woman, could not picture her, none of these names save Claire attached to real people. Yet he was sick as the tale unfolded, Sawyer's eyes locked onto his.

"Day after that, Jin and Echo found you at the bottom of a ravine," continued Sawyer. "You were sittin' up, dried blood all over ya, and ah…hell, what's the word? Yeah, non-responsive to questions. Thought maybe you hit your head somehow. You let 'em walk you back to camp. Took ya to Jack. That was yesterday."

Dried blood. He stared at his rag-covered hands. The woman had been battered and he was covered with blood. He pulled at an end of the bandage's knot on his left hand. It slipped away as his cloth encased fingers fumbled. His second attempt garnered the same result. He clenched his jaw and frantically tore at the dressing edge at his wrist. As its soft edges resisted him, he raised his hand to his teeth to pull, his breathing growing ragged.

"Hey!" objected Sawyer as he stepped closer. "I don't think that's a good idea."

They must be removed. He must see his hands. He must see the hands of a killer.

Sawyer agitatedly hovered, then leaned in, trying to catch Sayid's wrists. "Sayid, stop it!"

Sayid flailed, striking blindly at his captor. He felt skin rend as his left fist struck Sawyer's chin, who grunted with the blow.

"Sawyer!" Jack's voice filled the room. "Let him go!"

Sawyer dodged the other hand, and continued twisting, working to press Sayid to the ground. "Could use some help here, Jackass!" the accent was all but gone as he shouted, seeming to struggle to avoid the wounded shoulder. "Damn Arab, goin' nuts!"

Jack rushed to the thrashing pair and with effort freed Sawyer of the tangle of flying arms. Sayid laid still, gasping, eyes wide as Sawyer straightened to full height, moving his jaw from side to side.

Sayid closed his eyes, as a huge weight seemed to press him into the floor.

He had murdered a woman. He could not recall a word, a step, a blow that he made against her; he could not produce the woman's face, her voice, how he felt at her touch; but the few facts presented by the collection of people that had spoken to him today - that were introduced to him - lead to that conclusion. He stared unblinking at the infirmary's stone ceiling, heard Jack and Sawyer's angry exchange bounce around him.

A woman's voice - strident but not shrill - broke through his trance. American accent, slightly different from Jack's. Sayid turned his head to see a short, dark haired woman standing toe to toe with Jack, gesticulating at his bed. She was using words like 'dangerous', 'restraint', and 'lied'. Sayid found her eyes - brown. She caught him looking and glared at him before resuming her tirade.

He missed Claire. He wanted her to come back and be calm, to smile. He wanted to touch her hair again.

The dialogue raged around him. Too much was happening for him to process or absorb it. Too much of it was information that he did not want. He wondered vaguely if he could run from the cave if he were able to stand. He felt odd, unattached to his body. He wondered if he felt this way before. Or often.

Another person entered the room - blonde-haired woman, older than Claire, eyes of green - bearing a makeshift tray. He wondered if he was simply an audience of one for a very oddly cast play, the room the stage, people coming in and out stage center, all for his entertainment.

His stomach growled loudly - something smelled very good on that tray - and he hoped that the food would be shared. He was hungry.

She made her way towards him, but was intercepted by the dark-haired woman midway. "Libby," she hissed. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

The blonde-haired woman frowned lightly. "Helping Sun out, like you said to do, Ana Lucia. She asked me to bring Sayid his dinner."

"I didn't tell you to feed him! In fact, didn't I tell you to stay away from here?"

He watched Jack and Sawyer exchange glances during this brief discussion: a common enemy in the dark one. He allowed his vision to drift back to the women.

Libby met the glare, then wavered, dropping her glance to the floor.

"Let the woman feed the man, Rambina," said Sawyer. "He's not gonna touch her while we're standin' here."

Hot shame raced through him. Sayid turned his head, appetite lost.

"And the tussle you two were having when I came in," shot Ana Lucia. "He wasn't touching you then?"

"Get real," replied Sawyer with a slight snort. "That was a misunderstandin'."

The dark haired woman crossed to Sayid and prodded him with her shoe. "Hey."

He licked his lips, pushed up onto his elbow, and moved to meet her glower.

"Sit up. Don't touch Libby or I'll kill you."

He did not look away as Jack, Sawyer, and Libby's voices chimed together in protest. Sayid sat up slowly, eyes locked with the brown-eyed woman. He leaned carefully against the wall. It felt like he had performed the same motions for eons. Was he really on an island? Was this really a cave?

"Look," Ana Lucia faced the chorus as Libby slipped past to Sayid. "Until we know for sure what he did or didn't do" her voice dripped with disdain. "All I'm asking is for him to be restrained. Until we know one way or another."

"Restrained how, Ana?" asked Jack.

Libby placed the tray to his left side, then sat next to it. She smiled at him. He appreciated it, especially with Ana Lucia there to see.

"No pits here, Deputy Dawg," added Sawyer. "In the mood to dig? I'll make ya a shovel. Even try not to throw some rocks atcha while you're workin'."

"What about this hatch I keep hearing about?" She disregarded Sawyer and addressed Jack. "Any rooms with locks there?"

Libby offered a coconut bowl to him. Soup. Its smell was ambrosia. He took it carefully, and realized with dismay that his hands were shaking. She glanced at his face, and reclaimed the bowl.

"Ana, are you seriously suggesting that I lock Sayid up? Just lock him up and what? Throw away the key?" Jack rolled his eyes. "We don't know if he - what he did."

"She's dead. I saw the body, Jack. It coulda been the Others except he wouldn't come away alive. Not when you're an adult. Never.

"And Libby saw his hands. They're bruised and cut. Seems to me two plus two is one dead Shannon. And that's one too many." She rocked back and forth on her heels. "Look, I don't know the guy. Maybe that's in my favor. Maybe I can be more objective than you."

"Excuse me," said Libby calmly. "Could you take this conversation out of here? Please, Ana Lucia?"

"No!" The shout did not echo. Sayid considered that strange, given all the rock around them.

Libby twisted her mouth. She traded looks with Jack. "C'mon, Ana, you taught me everything you know about self defense. You're all of ten feet away. Nothing is going to happen to me with you just outside the door, not with you watching him like a hawk."

Jack, after a silent exchange with Sawyer, started for the exit, Sawyer close behind. Ana Lucia looked between them and Libby. She stepped over to Sayid and knelt. "Touch her and you die, got it?"

Sayid considered her intense expression. "Yes."

She made a warning face at Libby and hurried to catch up with the two men. Ana Lucia stopped just outside the arch and planted herself facing the seated couple.

Libby shifted so her back was to the crowd. "When was the last time you ate?"

He lifted his shoulders minutely. "I do not know." The malignant eyes removed, his appetite was reviving with the delicious smell wafting his way.

"Drank?"

"Today. Claire gave me water." He patted the rumpled blankets. "Sawyer," the names were so odd to his tongue. "Left me a bottle. When I ..swooned." His lips formed a smile. It felt strange.

It must not have looked strange. Her lips twitched, then broke into a full smile

"Doesn't count if you don't actual drink it," she produced the full bottle of water from near his leg. "I think you're dehydrated. Shaky hands. Dry mouth? Dizzy when you stand?"

Sayid nodded. "You are a doctor?"

Libby laughed ruefully. "No, but I play one at work." She noted the lack of response. "Nevermind. I'm a therapist. More spirit than body. Not a whole lotta help here." She rolled her eyes. "But I run. Ran a marathon last summer - all 26.2 miles. Not sure how much that is in kilometers. Sorry, so American of me. Runners are lectured regularly about the hazards of dehydration. Let's start there."

She unscrewed the cap, and placed the bottle in his hands then guided them to his mouth, gently cupping the back of his hands. "Jack should have caught this, though. Did he suggest water to you?"

He was grateful for her tact, her help as his hands shook as he drank. He suspected that he would have spilt more than drank without her.

"You'd think I was a dentist," she continued, dropping a hand to his shoulder as the bottle slowly emptied. It was warm on his skin, rough when he expected smooth. "Asking questions while you can't answer. So I'll talk.

"For the record, you don't really know me. I'm Libby. The bossy one is Ana Lucia. We were with the tail section on the other side of the island. We've been here about a week so I can't answer a whole lot of questions about anyone else but I'll give 'em a go, if you're in the question asking mood."

He began to lower the bottle. She took it, glancing at its level. "You're gonna have to do better than that. But soup is fluid, so let's move on to the second course." Setting the water on the floor, she picked up the bowl. "I forgot the spoon so it's 'eat like an Asian time'."

Again, her hands supported his, her continued touch comforting as the broth sliding down his throat.

"I don't get many opportunities to chat at will, Ana Lucia isn't much of a conversationalist, so pardon me if I jump at this. Let's see…. figures, I'm drawing a blank so I'll talk about sushi. And miso. I love miso -"

He pushed the bowl away from his mouth. "Ana Lucia said that you saw my hands. I …know that Jin and Echo brought me here. How did you - how did that happen?"

She considered him, her smile dimming as sympathy colored her eyes. He hated pity. He didn't want pity. It was not warranted.

"You're stubborn. No charge for that diagnosis. I imagine others have told you." She lightly urged the bowl back. She waited until his lips touched the bowl. "Ana Lucia pimped me out as a doctor when you hit camp. No one knew where Jack was at first, so it made some sense but it was more that she didn't trust … you guys…to be upfront with what was going on. Turns out she was kinda right. Jack doesn't offer a lot of details about some things. She's good that way. Knowing what to do.

"She kept us alive over there. She was the first to recognize it when we started being picked off. She organized us - trust me, if wasn't easy to get some of those men to listen to a woman, especially one that short. We had to lose a couple more before they even looked up when she yelled. She taught us a lot. She saved my life. She's smart."

The broth was gone. They lowered the bowl. Chunks of fish and papaya rested on the bottom.

Libby gestured to his bandaged hands. "Willing to let me? I promise my hands are as clean as it gets here." At his nod, she tipped the bowl and pinched a piece of fish. She smiled as she placed into his open mouth. "Oh yeah, Sun said to tell you that there's no boar in this."

"Ana Lucia is smart," he parroted, swallowing the food. Sun had no face to him to thank for a kindness.

Libby paused, papaya ready, her expression shifting to caution. "Yes. Very smart. Street smart, people smart, and loud."

"She believes that I killed Shannon." Amazing the ease with which those words could pass his lips now.

Libby twisted her lips wryly. "Are you trying to run rings about me logically?" She touched his closed mouth with the fruit. "C'mon. Eat this. Good man.

"I don't know what Ana thinks definitely about what you did or didn't do. After our little adventure over there, she's not taking any chances. I'd say don't take it personally but that's stupid. It's all about you." She put the empty bowl on the ground and returned the water to him. "Bet your shaking is gone now."

Sayid noted the slightest tremor in his hand as he brought the bottle to his mouth. The danger of dropping the bottle was gone. He drank the bottle dry.

"See. Always get your medical advice from athletes." She smiled smugly. It dropped as she studied his face. "Sayid," her voice was lower as she took the bottle. "Don't accept a majority's opinion because it's the easiest path. If you -"

"For the last time Ana, it's too late to walk to the hatch!" Jack crossed into the room, Sawyer, Ana, and an older bald man following him. "And we're not trussing him up like a convicted felon!" They stopped as a group at Sayid's feet.

The unknown man's smile at Sayid was open and friendly. His eyes were blue - bright blue. "Hello Sayid. I'm John Locke. Get your dinner?" Another American.

Sayid dipped his chin in acknowledgement. The odd sense of detachment had eased considerably.

"Tie him up or I sit up with him. All night. With my gun," retorted Ana Lucia, drawing the attention back to her.

"That's MY gun, sugar," snorted Sawyer. "And I want it back."

Libby's exhale matched the resigned drop of her shoulders. She gathered the meal's remains, and stood. Her smile returned but weak. "I'll get some more water," she said to no one and left.

Jack sighed, closing his eyes. His shoulders slumped, his face revealing weariness as he rubbed his eyes. "Look, Ana, I sleep here. There is no need -"

"Exactly, Jack," she loaded his name with mockery. "Sleep. He could get to the beach and back before you knew it. I'll just sit right there," she pointed to the wall opposite Sayid. "And watch him. That's all. And if he so much as moves, I'm shooting him. Dead, Jack." Once more, the use of his name was laden with ridicule.

Sayid shifted uneasily. It would be an easy death to be shot, for one who performed so violent an act.

"And if he snores?" sputtered Sawyer. "Gawd woman, you gonna shoot him for that, too?"

"Ana Lucia," said the bald man with a calming voice. "Is right."

The words knocked the breath from him. His head began to spin. He pushed his back against the stone. It was solid. It was as it was - immutable. It would be stone. That would not change when different people touched it. It would always be stone.

The others' expressions varied from surprise to satisfaction - as the trio turned to John Locke.

"Given how people are talking about this situation, Sayid might need protection," he stated firmly. "I'll take the watch with you, Ana Lucia."

Jack groaned as Sawyer erupted with disbelief.

"Fine, John," said Ana Lucia, her stance relaxing slightly. "You say potatoes and I order fries. I appreciate the backup." She turned to Sayid, her face displaying her fierce determination. "Let's be clear on this. This is no slumber party. Him here or not, you're not going anywhere. Not alive."

Sayid, eyes locked with hers, nodded once. Maybe it was a sign, an answer. Looking ahead, he saw nothing. He could make no plans. Did he believe in Fate?

Libby surprised him as she knelt next to him. A different type of determination flashed in her eyes, "Just because she means it," her voice was low, severe. "Don't you dare take that path. It might be sitting across from you but that doesn't make it the answer." She pressed a bottle, slightly damp, into his hands, rose and strode away, not looking back.

Sayid watched her go.


	2. Chapter 2

He dozed off and on throughout the night. He realized that his eyes were open when the wall was in front of him, Ana Lucia and John Locke were murmuring behind him, and he could hear Jack lightly snoring. But he could recall periods of none of that and concluded that was sleep. Sleep was heavy, dreamless, and draining.

He was awake when Jack tapped him on the arm. He rolled carefully - the shoulder wound was throbbing again - and allowed Jack to help him to sit. He looked to the wall of sentries as Jack began to examine his hands. John Locke called a greeting and smiled. Ana Lucia was not there.

He was surprised that despite the poor rest, his head felt clearer, his body more sound. He attempted to touch a memory, and was not surprised when he found none. Perhaps he should ask Libby if she knew a solution for amnesia. Perhaps he should drink more water. Eat more soup.

"I want to put a clean dressing on these," said Jack, glancing up from the hands to Sayid's face. "Once we get to the hatch, I'll take at least one of them off so you can be more independent. Well, as much as you can be." He smiled ruefully. "Libby reamed me on that last night. Sorry."

Sayid, disregarding the dread that was building in his chest, lowered his gaze to his hands. He held them out, turning them slowly at the wrists. The sense of soundness, clarity vanished. He could not be sound with these attached to him.

The fingers varied in their swelling but none were unscathed. There were also different degrees of bruising around both sets of knuckles. Cuts, a few deep and oozing from under scabs, and scratches were scattered randomly across the backs and palms, the scratches trailing past his wrist to disappear on his forearms.

They sickened him.

"Sayid."

He blinked and met Jack's concerned eyes. "The swelling is down since yesterday. There's refrigeration at the hatch. We'll get some ice on them there. That'll be a big help. You let me examine them pretty well. Nothing felt broken."

Jack was wrong. There was much that was broken. No sound person could have hands in this condition. No accident could produce such wounds. His throat was closing. He wanted them off. He wanted away from these hands, proof of his soullessness. Claire's words about Shannon experiencing great fright as she died rang in his ears. Bile rose, choking him. He jumped to his feet, his ears roaring, his balance shaky, looking about desperately.

John Locke was at his side, holding a rough hewn bowl.

Sayid emptied his stomach.

It did not take long. He had little to bring up.

"Jack, water." The bald man's voice was very close to his ear.

He realized that his eyes were closed and that the older man was supporting him. Sayid took several deep breaths and pushed away.

"Thank you," he said quietly, lifting his hand to wipe his lips. He stopped, then used his wrist.

"I had a foster mother who insisted on rubbing your back when you were sick like that," replied John Locke. "I couldn't get her to stop it. It never helped me any. I think it made her feel better."

Jack's features were tight with worry. He awkwardly attempted to hand over the bottle of water, then with an exasperated huff put it to Sayid's lips. "Drink," he ordered.

Sayid took a mouthful and pulled away. He spat into the bowl, now at John Locke's feet. He tried using both hands to palm the jug from Jack but the wound in his shoulder made it too painful to lift beyond his waist. He frowned and weakly appealed to Jack for aid. He sipped slowly, eyes closed, ignoring the discomfort the flooded the room.

"I'm beginning to doubt he did kill Shannon. He seems incapable of doing anything alone."

He opened his eyes at Ana Lucia's sarcasm.

Dark circles under her eyes dominated her face. She put a hand to her hip, her gaze sweeping from his feet to his face. "You look like shit."

"Good morning, everyone." Claire poked her head into the room.

Sayid's heart skipped a beat. Ana Lucia glanced over her shoulder at the blonde-haired woman and moved to allow her entry.

"Jack, can I talk to you a minute?" Claire's smile was forced and slipped from her face as she looked around to before settling her gaze on the surgeon. She was not the serene, cheerful person who helped him with water the day before.

"Not a good time, Claire. Is it important?" asked Jack.

"Um, it's Charlie," she twisted her mouth, approached Jack, a slight bid for privacy. "He's acting ...different." Her words sped up. "Oh, it's probably nothing. It's just you said if people started ...not crazy." She slowed down again and abandoned all pretenses that she was talking to Jack alone. "He's not acting crazy," She backed away uncertainly. "I'll come back later."

"Claire?" Sayid had no idea why he detained her. Ana Lucia took a step towards him, her face menacing. He held his ground, wondering if the perpetually angry woman had ready access to the threatened gun and what would prompt her to use it.

"It's nothing, Sayid," Claire turned her attention to him. "Really. Just ...remember when you two went - " She seemed to realize the inanity of her words and flushed a deep red. "It's me... Charlie's allowed to lose his temper. I'm just jumpy, that's all."

Her words meant something to John Locke. "Lose his temper how, Claire?" He glanced at Sayid. "He didn't strike you?"

Sayid tried to ignore the sting as everyone in the infirmary followed suit. A locked room and its privacy were starting to appeal more and more.

"No! No! Nothing like that!" she denied hotly, the flush creeping down her neck. "I bumped his pack when I was hanging nappies and broke something, that statute," she rolled her eyes at her clumsiness. "He brought back from Rousseau's, you know, when Charlie and Sayid got Aaron back. He wouldn't hit me! He just yelled."

"I'll look into this, Jack," said John Locke, purposefully crossing to Claire. He took her elbow and led her from view. "Who has Aaron now?"

Ana Lucia impatiently slouched against the wall, watching Jack salve and bandage Sayid's injuries. She remained surprisingly quiet, leaving at one point to return with a green button down shirt from clothing storage that she tossed to Jack when he finished. She remarked keeping "the prisoner" shirtless was not a good idea on a trek on a tropical island. She pulled a wry face, well, unless you're Mistereko, she added and pointed out the obvious: Sayid was not.

The prisoner slipped the shirt on, taking care with his wounded shoulder. The garment was an odd shade of green and was slightly too large for his frame. Jack grinned as Sayid regarded the buttons. He met Jack's eye and shrugged, a small smile ghosting his lips. Was the woman intentionally torturing him?

Ana Lucia snorted and addressed Sayid. She started fastening from the bottom of the shirt, commenting that the inability to lift the arms ruled out all types of shirts, ask Sawyer. She left the top button and sleeves free and stepped back. She inspected her handiwork with a toss of her head, her lips almost upturned. It was dark in the caves, she said.

Sayid looked questioningly to Jack.

"Well," laughed Jack. "Shannon wouldn't let you out of your tent in it." His laughter ceased, his features creased with sadness. "Sorry, Sayid."

"Let's go," Ana-Lucia said briskly, seeming to cover the moment. She stooped and retrieved a small pile of vine near the door. "C'mere Sayid."

Fear sliced through him. This had not occurred to him. It made sense to Ana Lucia to restrain him, he realized, but he did not like the concept. That he did not made sense as well. As a murderer, easily relinquishing his liberty chilled him to the bone.

He could not move.

"What's that for?" demanded Jack, moving closer to Sayid.

She appeared at a loss. "This? Exactly what it looks like. I braided it this morning so it's not stiff at all. C'mon, let's do this and get moving."

"Ana, he's going to the hatch," Jack said coldly, lowly. "We're locking him up, all to satisfy you and your crew. That'll have to be enough."

"Because he's a good guy when he's out of the caves and the hatch?" she scoffed. "Look, it's not five people out there saying he scares them. Have you talked to anyone lately? You have a lot of scared people - the women, in particular. You need a reminder why I'm being like this? Go take a hike to your expanding graveyard. This guy killed his girlfriend. And not in a nice way."

"You're not going to parade him around like some sheriff out of the old west. I don't care if he did it or not."

"You don't know and you're just playing this game that IF his memory returns, you'll do something about it. Maybe."

"Ana - " Jack's tone was angry.

Sayid stepped to the woman and presented his wrists.

"Turn around." She met his gaze levelly as Jack exclaimed with disgust.

Sayid presented his back, biting his lip as the wound on his shoulder pulled; a small gasp of pain escaped his lips.

"Ana!" protested Jack. "Use your head!"

"Okay," she sounded almost contrite. "Front."

Sayid turned again. She studied his face as she twined the soft, green chord around his wrists. "Same drill as last night." She finished and pulled at each arm to ensure the bind.

He did not allow himself to flinch.

"Let's go," Ana-Lucia decreed. "Mistereko is at the beach."

"It's shorter from here," stated Jack, sliding his backpack over his shoulder.

"I didn't know that," replied Ana Lucia. "I was counting on Locke, so Mistereko is definitely going. We go to the beach first."

"It is not necessary," said Sayid softly.

"As if I'd believe you," she said without irony. "You don't know what you do, remember?"

The color of the shirt was not improved with the walk to the beach. Ana Lucia started at a pace that left Sayid breaking into a cold sweat and gasping five minutes after they started. Jack demanded a rest. Sayid slumped against a tree, drinking water with Jack's assistance when he was able. Ana Lucia paced like a restless cat around them, her eyes never leaving Sayid. They set out on a more sedate gait when Jack agreed Sayid was ready.

It had been a cave located in a jungle. This jungle was near an ocean. The surf was heard before they broke the tree line. As their feet touched sand, the proof of the plane crash was spread before them with the tattered collection of tarp and plane salvage shelters clustered haphazardly.

The beach was a busy place, people milling about at the shore line, moving around fires, hanging laundry.

The delicious aroma of roasting flesh mingled with the brine of the waves.

This was much better than the caves, Sayid decided, looking up and down the shore. He tilted his head back and filled his lungs.

"Where's Mistereko?" asked Jack of Ana Lucia while scanning Sayid's features.

"I don't know," she answered. "He wasn't aware of the plan. It might take a couple of minutes."

Sayid smiled at Jack's scrutiny, reading into it concern. Or was it Jack's job? At this moment, it did not matter. The sunlight on his bearded face helped him disregard the thrumming ache of his injuries, the breeze chilling him through the damp shirt. Was this where he stayed during his old life? He hoped so.

As if reading his mind, Jack pointed to a structure that appeared 'closed' when the others had either inhabitants near by or tarp pulled back. "That's yours. Wanna see it?"

Ana-Lucia frowned. "This isn't a field trip, Jack."

"It might kick off a memory. You find Mistereko. We'll be over there," replied Jack. "You know which one is his." He indicated with a jerk of his head for Sayid to accompany while he tossed over his shoulder. "And Ana, we know you'll shoot."

Her expression murderous, it was possible to watch Ana Lucia's thought processes. She wavered between following them and her own mission. With what could be described as a growl, she stormed after them.

Jack chuckled and grinned at Sayid, "If you were in better shape, I'd say let's run for it."

"Jack," Sayid's mood did not match that of the doctor's. "Did Shannon… did Shannon live here?"

The lighthearted smile dimmed as Jack stopped walking. He studied Sayid's face for a moment. "I can forget this is serious for you. And the rest of us." He sighed as Ana Lucia grabbed his elbow,

"That wasn't funny," she hissed.

"He can't run. Unless you think I'm in on this - "

"I don't know, Jack," she cut him off. "You're fighting me every step of the way. Even Charlie, your village idiot, is convinced he did it and you decide to take a stroll down the beach."

Sayid allowed his attention to wander. His opinion did not matter. Some of the activity seemed to drop off. There were more clumps of people near the tents than earlier. Perhaps it was mealtime. He was impressed with the organizational implementation required to accomplish this.

"And it's supposed to make me feel better that the guy who beats women to death wasn't leading the escape?" Ana Lucia's voice was growing louder.

In the full sun, the circles under her eyes were deeper and darker. Leading this fight was taking a toll on her, Sayid realized.

"I would like to see Shannon's shelter," Sayid stepped between Ana Lucia and Jack, appealing to the woman. "Please."

He had not thought of it ten seconds ago, and now the need was so strong he thought he would choke on it.

Rolling her eyes, Ana Lucia frowned. She glared at him, then turned her head and stared at the ocean, lips pressed tightly together. She heaved a sigh, and locked eyes with her prisoner. "You need to start acting blood thirsty, okay? Like him," she jerked her chin in Jack's direction. "It's that one, isn't it, Jack?" She gestured to another oddly abandoned feeling but sturdy looking edifice. "C'mon. I'll find Mistereko when we're done."

He trailed after her, concentrating on her petite form and weary step instead of the ball that was growing in his stomach.

If there was a photograph. If he saw her face. Would it come back to him? The reason that he would strike a woman, then break her neck? Could he withstand the onslaught of what had to be, please Allah, had to be memories of rage? The feel of her warm blood on his hands? Her cries of fear? It had to be rage. Please Allah, please, it could not be cold, calculated. He would beg for death if it was cold.

His heart was thudding in his chest as Ana Lucia pushed open the tarp. She turned and grasped his forearm for balance up the largish step.

He was immobile.

"Sayid?" Jack's voice was in his ear. He saw nothing beyond the shelter opening.

"We don't have to do this, Sayid."

He put a foot forward. Then the other. Ana Lucia pulled and he pushed up and he was in. Jack scrambled behind him and remained on the step.

He was standing in a dim room. It was small. The walls were stiff plastic, the bed, its dominant feature, was neatly made with an ugly blanket stamped with a logo, yet there was a femininity pervading its essence. Dead flowers drooped atop a rough-hewn shelf; suitcases were against a wall, stacked, the top one with a soft appearing bit of pink lingerie trailing out of it.

He did not need to take a deep breath to catch the spicy, floral scent that permeated the space. "A photograph," he whispered, then repeated louder. "A photograph?"

Ana Lucia scanned the area and gestured to the corner. "There's a purse on the floor over there."

He covered the short distance, snagged the fragile looking bag with his bandage mittened hands, and moved to the shelf next to the dead stalks. He fumbled with the clasp, hearing the fast tattoo of his heart in his ears. He pled mutely to Ana Lucia.

She sighed heavily and joined him, her elbow touching his by necessity. She twisted the gold top and dumped the contents. Another sigh, not so large, as she spread the few articles flat. Picking up the shiny wallet, she unsnapped the flap. She inventoried the contents quickly, pulled the drivers license from the plastic sheath, and thrust it in his hands. "Here." She turned, granting him privacy.

The woman in the photograph was pretty. No, she was beautiful. And young. So very young. Her eyes were blue and lively. Her smile was winning, even with the government produced document. She was too young to die so horribly.

But he did not know her.

His knees gave and he collided with the floor, the slip of laminated paper flying..

Ana Lucia whirled and Jack burst in. Both raced at him, clamoring rapidly, seeming to flap their arms, all from a great distance. Sayid sat, waiting for the rushing sound of blood in his ears to fade.

"I do not know her," he finally said. He needed water. His mouth was sticky. It would be good to have it delivered by Libby. He briefly pondered the probability and resigned himself to Jack. "I would like some water, please."

The two voices returned to the room and their arms resumed normal functions.

"Lemme get this straight," Ana Lucia sputtered. "You faint because you **didn't **recognize her? I'm not buyin' it, Romeo. C'mon Jack, you saw it. He saw the license and fainted. How much more do you need?"

"Sayid," Jack's face came to eye level.

Sayid wondered how many times in this life he had this vantage of Jack. "Water, please, Jack."

"Get up." Ana Lucia dove under Jack's arm and clinched Sayid's bicep. "NOW, you son-of-a-dog-eating-bitch!" She yanked mightily, sending Jack off balance and backwards onto the floor, striking the tower of luggage with one of his legs, as Sayid stood.

The tower swayed for moments, then collapsed with a loud clatter.

Almost instantly, voices surrounded the shelter. Through the plastic walls, he made out shadows, felt the anger in the shouts, demands.

Jack climbed to his feet, glaring at Ana Lucia, then stepped out of the shelter, rubbing his thigh. "It's okay," Sayid heard him say, then felt his interest in the doctor's actions dissolve. Ana Lucia's hand gripped him tightly.

"When he calms them down, we're going out that door and to the hatch, you got me? No more side bars, no more field trips. March your ass straight to the hatch." Her eyes burned into his. "Do. You. Understand?" Her rough skin on her fingers dug into the skin as she tried to shake him.

It was working. His head was clearing. He had to appear as an idiot. "Yes," he said. He did not look away. "I am sorry that you do not believe me."

"It doesn't matter what I believe, what Jack believes, what Libby believes," spat the woman. "What matters is you killed that woman, you know it, and the day will come you'll answer for it."

The voices were growing louder, the tone uglier. He needed to be clear. He resisted the desperation that was climbing his spine. "Please, I need water."

"Do you see any water on me? Your buddy Jack is the guy with -"

The shelter shifted suddenly as bodies slammed into wall closest to Ana Lucia, toppling her onto the bed. Sayid stumbled stepped and dropped into a sit. Using his legs, he attempted to wedge them and his back between the bed and the wall behind him but realized it was not a tenable position.

The voices rose into a howl around them. The rush was repeated, the frame of tree branches yielding, the plastic flapping as it fell to the ground. Ana Lucia clung to the bed frame with the tremor, then clawed to the bed edge.

He could distinguish a basso profundo voice shouting Ana Lucia's name as the third wave hit.

He flew into the far wall, and slid down, a leg trapped between it and bottom of the platform. Ana Lucia jumped to her feet as bodies swarmed the platform. She looked about wildly and dashed to him and began to kick at the plastic. "Work with me!" she screamed.

He struggled desperately to free himself with his legs, elbows, to breach the seam when the tarp met the platform but it was secured too tightly.

As hands hauled her away, Ana Lucia kicked and snapped as her arms were pulled behind her. She was outnumbered and easily pushed off the platform into waiting arms. Sayid could make out her voice screaming profanities as she was removed.

Someone buried their hand into his hair and yanked. It was impossible not to scream. He was pulled up by many sets of rough hands, and noted vaguely minutes later that the hits, kicks were losing intensity as they rained in on him. He recognized Charlie's grinning face as Sayid was lifted from the shelter remains, dropped onto the sand and dragged away from the beach.

He was flung to the ground face down just inside the jungle. The voices receded, then were gone.

He hurt. He should be sick, there was so much hurt. Later, when this was finished, he would weep from the pain. Did Shannon hurt like this? Did she weep? Did he watch her weep and continue to add to her pain? If he did, he hoped this would not stop, that he died as he killed.

He had rested enough. It was time to go. He needed to find Jack and Ana Lucia. He gritted his teeth, tried to first to lift his shoulders. He collapsed as white light of pain shot behind his eyes. He concentrated on his breathing, and prepared to try again.

"Hey, Sayid, a taste of justice, yeah?" said Charlie cheerfully, ambling from an unseen direction. He watched, circling the downed man. "Bet you weren't expecting' that, were you? We didn't so."

Sayid rolled slowly onto his left side, pushed up with his elbow. He paused, steeled himself, and pressed his hands to the ground and thrust. He stood. He tottered like Shannon's luggage but remained standing.

"You better scamper off now." Charlie rubbed his nose with his sleeve. "All those bloody Americans. You know how they are - planning a proper lynching. Got a nice favor just for you."

Sayid took a step. He prepared for another.

Charlie stopped pacing, his grin spreading. "Ah Sayid, don't ya know lead us not into temptation?" He cocked his head, moving closer, hands up to push, "Like ya did with that plane. You're gonna hang - once those pillocks pick a tree."

"Charlie, I can't tell you how disappointed I am in you."

Charlie froze at the words. He mouthed a curse, buried his hands in his pockets, and turned. "Locke! What have you done with Claire?"

Sayid concentrated on his feet. His knees were feeling rubbery. He set his chin. He would not fall. He took another step.

The calm man moved smoothly and slowly, a young Asian man trailing, towards them. "You made the right choice once. You should have followed it up with another one. You know you don't want the drugs. You know what the drugs cost you."

"Ah but this time they're free!" Charlie's boyish face beamed. He began to back up with every step John Locke took. "John, John, listen to me. I can handle it this time. I'm in control."

The Asian man stopped shadowing John Locke and waited for the bald man to back Charlie a few more feet, then slipped to Sayid.

Sayid nodded his thanks to the fellow as strong hands slipped under his left arm. Brown eyes, he noted.

"Jack? Ana Lucia?" gasped Sayid.

The man nodded once sharply.

Charlie shook off his mentor's hand. "Where's Claire?" he demanded angrily. "What did you do with her? Where is she?" He turned and began to run towards the beach. "You can't keep her from me!" he shouted over his shoulder and darted past the tree line.

John Locke joined the two men. With one even motion, he unholstered a large knife, cut the vines around Sayid's hands, and slipped the weapon back to its holster. "How are you, Sayid?"

"We must leave," said Sayid slowly. He was losing the ability to focus once more.

John Locke carefully placed Sayid's right arm around his neck and smiled easily. "It's all right, Sayid. Everything's under control. You have more friends than enemies here." He leaned slightly and spoke around him. "Let's go, Jin."

The Asian Jin did not respond. Sayid wondered what his accent would be.

John Locke and the silent Asian Jin dragged him through the jungle. Sayid concentrated on staying conscious and disregarding his body and its protests.

They stopped, seemingly without reason. John Locke shifted his support of Sayid to Jin and appeared to walk into the hillside. Sayid focused on not falling, making a vain attempt to not completely lean on the wiry man.

Two people, a young heavy set brown eyed man and a young blue eyed woman, emerged from nowhere to join John Locke. The young man uttered 'dude' as the three regarded him. He could hear John Locke's voice but not his words. The three swarmed him and along with silent Jin, carried him underground.

The hatch was a bunker, he realized as they moved through a concrete tunnel, dank and dim despite all the candlepower blazing from the lights mounted on the sides of the walls. The four took him to a small room, empty but for a cot.

They lowered him gently onto it. He closed his eyes, whispering thanks, and let go to sink into oblivion.

Only one eye would open. He directed it to the source of the dim light in the room. A small desk lamp sat on the floor, its bulb dim, casting a small halo of light on the painted concrete floor, his shoes, and a bottle of water. He had to call to mind his location, which was followed by a rush of the day's events.

He was not too certain the value of memory, but the cot was good.

He sat up slowly, and ignored his pounding head to stand. He was tired of helplessness. He was done with it. He waited until he was certain that he would not topple and walked slowly, his gait that of an ancient relative, to the door.

The knob was cool and round and he was able to enclose it with both palms and turn.

It was locked.

He sighed and rested his forehead on the smooth surface.

Sayid pushed away from the door and hobbled to the water, then returned to the cot. He pushed its light frame close to the wall with his legs and sat, his back to the wall. After significant fumbling, he was able to open the bottle, complete with fanfare in his head. He drank, ignoring the shoulder. He had motivation now, thanks to Libby.

That adventure over, he examined the plain room over and over, his gaze always coming back to the locked door, sipping occasionally until the bottle was dry.

He was alerted by the sound of fumbling at the door to another's presence. It stopped without opening.

He was about to admit his disappointment when it resumed, voices accompanying this time. Jack, looking worse for wear, stepped into the room. The blue-eyed woman was holding a key with a large loop of string, watching Sayid intently with an expression of hostility and hurt.

"Geeze Kate," said Jack, over his shoulder as she hung back in the doorway. "Could you find a dimmer light?"

Kate back stiffened and she crossed her arms across her chest. "Just about everything here is built in, Jack. It was that or a flashlight." Another American accent.

She and Jack exchanged looks.

Sayid pushed away from the wall to the edge of the cot. Jack sat gingerly at the foot; Kate held her post at the door.

"How are you feeling?" Jack asked.

Jack was fuzzy but Sayid was not certain whether that was the dim light or his swollen eye. The doctor also sported a bruised eye and scrapes along one cheek.

"Are you all right? And Ana Lucia?" Sayid asked.

Jack nodded, "Pretty much. It was ……interesting for a few minutes. I learned that ten people can make a mob, but we got things under control pretty quickly. Ana was annoyed -"

"Name a time when she's not," muttered Kate lowly.

"With us," Jack continued. "She blamed the whole thing on the stop at Shannon's place. No one was seriously hurt, and that's counting you, although Sun and I had a one hell of a run on astringent and aloe." His eyes focused on the floor then to Sayid. "I'm sorry, Sayid. I wasn't reading people right with this." He paused, shaking his head. "At any rate, things seem to be ironed out."

"For now," shot Kate.

"For now," repeated Jack.

"Ana Lucia - was she hurt?" Kate's look of betrayal at his question confused him. Sayid pushed it away. Kate did not like Ana Lucia. That was not his concern.

"She looks good with a shiner," chuckled Jack, disregarding the glare from Kate. "We're trying to draw up a plan on how to proceed with this. Like Michael said, we don't have a forensic lab to pull rabbits out of a hat, let alone a police force to investigate." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We never had a ….situation like this. I didn't plan…… I still think things will come back to you in a couple more days."

He did not look at all certain of that.

"So I stay here," stated Sayid flatly.

Jack looked around at the bleak room. "Unfortunately, yes." He glanced at Kate. "Isn't the store room bigger than this? It has its own lighting, too."

"It also has an access hatch to the air ducts and shelving to reach it," Kate pointed out.

Jack sighed. "He's not going anywhere, Kate."

"Appearances are deceiving. Don't you think he proved that already? I didn't expect this." She tapped her forearm with her fingers, taking fast, angry peeks at Sayid. "Ana agreed this is the best room. She and Locke switched the lock around."

Sayid watched the couple. There was more here than him escaping. Kate's reactions to him caused him to speculate that she, too, was a friend of Shannon. Or perhaps, a friend of his?

"It is fine, Jack," Sayid said neutrally. "I would like some more water. And something to eat?"

Jack stood and glared at Kate. "We'll take care of it, Sayid. Anything else? There're some books to read. A clock? There's a bathroom here. C'mon, you can take a shower while Kate gets your dinner."

The pretty woman balefully stared as Jack slowly led Sayid the way through the labyrinth of the bunker, then trotted in a different direction.

The brown eyed man stepped back after palming the light switch in a small, odd smelling bathroom. "There's soap there, towels there." He considered Sayid's hair. "And shampoo there. That doesn't look like a bar soap job."

Sayid closed the door behind him. Although it was brighter than his holding cell, the illumination was poor. What kind of place was it that tried to blind its denizens with poor lighting?

A movement caught his eye and he turned to a find mirror over the stainless steel sink. His eyes were brown - his first impression. He looked longer. His reflection was not pleasing: he was correct that one eye was swollen, and his nose was bruised and his face scratched. Worse was the shirt - its bilious color was not enhanced with the dried blood around the collar. He did not inspect the reflection for guilt. He preferred the idea of a shower at this moment.

He contemplated calling Jack to remove the bandages swaddling his hands but rejected the idea. He quickly determined that teeth were his best tool and went to work. The second hand was done the same after attempting to untie the knot with his swollen fingers.

It took three attempts to manipulate the buttons on the shirt before he became frustrated enough to pull until four buttons popped away. Getting the shirt over his head was not as painful as he suspected, had the added advantage of carrying the bandage from his shoulder with it, but he hoped he would not have to repeat the act again soon. He left the pants pooled on the floor as he groped at the valves in the shower stall.

He waited for the water sputtering in the stall to heat.

He hoped he would not have to choose between the shower and cot. He did not know if he was capable. Hot water against his tired, sore muscles, his abrasions, his scalp, the feel of grime that he was not conscious of before sliding down the drain was nirvana. He leaned against the wall and allowed the water to rain on him.

Jack - he was hoping it was Jack - had traded his soiled clothes with a pair of unstructured trousers. They had a strange symbol on the hip but he acknowledged all symbols were probably strange to him. He pulled them on and stepped cautiously outside the door. The concrete floor felt gritty under his clean feet.

He looked up and down the hall. He was alone. Ana Lucia would not be pleased. Neither would Kate.

He sank to the floor, resting his wrists on his bent knees, and watched up and down the long hall.

The heavyset young man turned a corner and froze as he spotted Sayid. "Dude, are you supposed to be, you know, out?"

He was not 'out' and at this moment he did not feel dangerous as he sat on a concrete floor, his feet bare, his hair wet and dripping down his bare back, hands and one eye swollen, donned only in running pants. Indeed the man's fearful expression amused him. Sayid would be hard pressed to say which had revived him more: the shower or Libby's water the other day. "I have escaped," he said drily.

"No way," hissed the hatch resident. "Does Kate know?"

"It is why I'm hiding here."

"Sayid!" Kate's sharp tone reverberated as she appeared in the passage. "Hurley! What's he doing there?"

"Will you hold her as I run?" Sayid climbed to his feet.

"Dude, no way," Hurley shook his curly head.

"As tough as Ana Lucia?"

"Twins separated at birth." Hurley grinned, then smothered it as Kate drew near. This amused Sayid and his smile reopened a split on his bottom lip.

"Where did you come from?" demanded Kate. "Hurley, did you - "

"No way, Kate," Hurley shook his head. "I found him though."

"Yes, Hurley has successfully captured me," said Sayid, his face neutral. He suspected his lighter mood would not be appreciated.

She looked between them, seeming to fight a smile. Her gaze ended at Sayid, and her expression hardened as her view fell to his hands. "C'mon. Back to your room." She started down the corridor, Sayid trailing.

The shower, the water, the rest had limbered him, and he walked with more ease.

He noticed a small stack of books, a blanket, and a tray of food on the cot as he stepped into the room, Kate standing in the entry.

"Need anything, bang on the door. Locke's coming on shift and he'll hear you." Her countenance, wavering between confusion and anger, scanned his face once more as she shut the door.

His lighten mood faded as he stared at the door. He turned and viewed the new additions.

He ate slowly. He had time to fill. Perhaps enforced idleness would speed his memory's return. He disregarded the wave of dread at the thought. He had to know the truth.

He glanced at the book titles, and decided that the day had been full enough. He moved the tray of dishes - real dishes - to the floor and curled up on the cot, spreading the blanket about his legs.

He left the light burning.


	3. Chapter 3

He blinked. A sound had wakened him. He pushed up onto his elbow and waited.

A soft tap at the door was repeated.

He climbed from the bed and stood before the entrance. "The door is locked."

"Sayid, it's me, Claire. Can I come in?"

"If you can unlock the door."

He listened as she inserted the key. He stepped back as the door swung open. Claire smiled tentatively and entered.

"I have mangoes," she held up a bowl - stainless steel bowl. She looked around, her smiling fading. "It's not so good in here, is it?"

"It has a cot," he replied.

"I got so bored I peeled mangoes. Aaron is napping, and I don't know who's scarier: Locke when he's watching those numbers count down, Locke when he's entering numbers, or Mistereko because…. he's Mistereko. They're not as much fun as Kate or Hurley." She stood in the center of the small room, bowl now held close. Her brow creased. "I should have brought a chair instead."

Sayid gestured for her to sit on the cot. She perched on an end. "Mango?" she offered the bowl.

He sat at her feet and determinedly fished a slice of the slippery fruit from the container. He carefully lifted it to his mouth and chewed, nodding as she watched him.

Claire frowned, "I suck at this."

He waited but when her face stayed crestfallen and she offered no explanation he asked, "What is 'this'?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Hiding from Charlie? Being a friend? You're in the middle of a riot on the beach today and I say 'mangoes' when we see each other." She gazed miserably at the fruit. "How are you?" she asked in a tiny voice.

He considered the question. "I would have preferred staring." His cheeks rounded as he smiled.

She chewed on this, then smiled broadly. "You haven't been given the evil eye by Tracey for getting too close to Steve."

"Will I get the evil eye from Steve for getting too close to Tracey?" Her shining countenance was a balm.

"No one gave the evil eye like Shannon! The day Kate touched you…" she trailed off. "See, suck."

"What she was like, Shannon?" It would have to be easier to hear from this woman. He was not sure that he was ready but he could not rely on being alone with her again. Like this.

Claire bit her lip, studying him intently in the dim light. "Are you sure?" she asked softly.

He nodded, trying for resolute.

She sank back against the wall, pulling her legs underneath her. "You know, I tried to think what I would tell you if you asked and I had a wonderful speech all put together and I can't remember a word of it right now." She sighed. "She was beautiful."

He initially watched Claire's face as she produced an image of Shannon Rutherford - he just became conscious that he had not known the woman's last name until hearing it - as Claire knew her in their time on the island. As the picture of a young woman coalesced, he leaned against the folding bed, cradling his head on his arm. He stared into space, drawing as much color, depth from each tale as he could - the golden dog Vincent; the orange bikini of which Claire was scandalized and envious; the large not green fish tricked from Charlie; the loud and comical, as Claire presented them, arguments with Shannon's brother; a third hand story Claire related of Sayid and Shannon working together, translating French from a map under Sayid's blue tarp, that evening ending with the two of them by the yellow flames of the signal fire, a pink shawl about her shoulders as she sang to Sayid..

As she continued, Claire's voice grew sad, and she began to stroke his hair, slipping fingers through its curls. He relaxed into her touch, allowing his eyes to close, her voice comfort as he drifted.

"Sayid," Claire's voice was in his ear and her hand on his shoulder. "Aaron's crying. I've got to go. Get on the cot.

He blinked and stood. "Thank you."

"Lie down."

"I will." He walked with her to the door.

She stopped and gazed into his eyes. "You'll remember soon, Sayid Jarrah." She gently wrapped a hand around his neck, urged his face towards hers, and softly kissed his lips.

She smiled at his bemused expression, touched his cheek, and moved into the hall.

He could hear her lock the door. He listened to her footfalls fade, then returned to the cot.

There it was. Again. The scream.

He rolled from the cot, landed in a crouch and looked wildly about, his heart pounding. He was still, muscles tensed, listening.

Quiet. His breathing the loudest thing to be heard.

He straightened slowly, waiting yet.

Nothing.

He exhaled loudly and began to pace. The adrenaline in his system would not let him stay still.

He had heard screams. He saw nothing for the darkness, the high grass –

Screams.

He stopped moving and tried to focus internally. High grass. There was high grass. She was screaming and he was looking for her.

He whirled and strode the length of the wall again and again. Remember. Focus. Screams. Follow the screams. Remember.

He dropped his face into his hands, slid them into his hair and pulled. Remember. Remember.

Nothing. The screams were silent.

Nothing.

He slid down the wall nearest the lamp, knees bent. He stared into the light and in time his breathing eased, his muscles unclenched. He did not change positions.

His head had fallen forward and he now whipped it back, hitting the wall behind him. He jumped to his feet, scanned the room.

She was crying.

She was begging him.

She was cursing him.

She was bleeding.

She was crying.

He pressed cracked snapped her neck.

It stopped. As abruptly as it had started, the noise stopped. There were no more crying. There were no more screams.

Sayid fell to the floor, sobbing.

He had killed Shannon Rutherford.

He sat up slowly. He licked his lips. There was water by the lamp.

He stood straight, and walked to the door.

He pounded. "John Locke!"

He stepped back, and waited.

His breathing was steady. He was calm. There was peace in knowing.

He waited by the door. It was not difficult to wait now. He was at the end. He knew.

"Yes, Sayid?" called John Locke, the tumblers in the lock falling open. The older man entered the room. "Do you need something?"

He spoke quietly. "I remember. Shannon's death. I killed her."

He saw her bruised face before him, blood lacing her skin, her teeth.

"In the jungle." He could see the tree, then the flora beneath her shoulders.

"I broke her neck." He saw the hands. Before they were bruised. Before they were swollen. Brushing away brilliant blonde hair, its length matted with blood from her neck. So that they could encircle the long, lovely neck and end her life.

He stood stiffly, his mind frozen on the image.

John Locke ran his palm over his head. "You're sure."

"I admit to my guilt."

"Okay," the American accent was pronounced as the word was drawn out. "Guess we better get Jack."

"Locke," it was Claire's voice. "I heard Sayid. Is he alright?"

John Locke turned, standing so that he filled the entryway. "Would you ask Mistereko to come here, Claire, please?"

"What's wrong? Sayid, are you okay?"

He backed to the far wall, his throat closed. He could not see Claire. The calm was shattered. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he clenched it tighter and tighter. His heart pounded louder and louder. Surely it would have to explode.

"Please, Claire. I need Mistereko to get Jack. Sayid's not feeling well - no, there's nothing you can do. I need Mistereko."

"Okay," she said it slowly, not convinced. "But I want an answer. Sayid, don't worry! We're getting Jack. Drink some water!"

John Locke stepped in after she was out of sight. "We'll get Jack here. Decide what to do next."

Sayid breathed deeply trying to slow his heart, and turned his eyes to John Locke. "Next?"

"You're confessing to a crime."

Sayid considered the word. Shannon's bleeding face locked behind his eyes, her cries ringing in his ears. "There must be consequences."

"Locke?" Misterecko's large frame filled the door.

John Locke turned to face the tall man. "I need you to get Jack, Mistereko. Sayid is not feeling well."

The long dark face regarded Sayid dispassionately. "Looks fine to me."

"You know what they say about appearances, don't you?" replied John Locke evenly. "And please don't say anything to Ana Lucia."

"She won't like that."

"Yes," nodded John Locke, rubbing his chin. "Yes, you're right. She won't"

"You'll enter the numbers?"

John Locke smiled. "Yes."

Mistereko looked between Sayid and John Locke and left the room.

"Put to death," said Sayid as John Locke started to pull the door shut.

"What?" John Locke paused.

"The consequence should be execution." His conviction to it as the proper action grew as he spoke. "I know this." The certainty was dizzying. He moved away from it. "Death."

"Well, that's the solution many societies take."

"Is it cowardly to request to be shot?" With all he was holding back, the question slipped away from him.

Sayid pulled the t-shirt over his head. It had the same symbol on the chest pocket of the pants now folded neatly on the cot. There was flicker of curiosity as to its meaning but it was stilled quickly. John Locke agreed that the Ana Lucia's choice of shirt was not one to be buried in as he handed Sayid his laundered clothes.

He did not understand why John Locke was insisting on Jack being here. It was not necessary. He had performed a heinous act. He must atone. There was no need to involve others.

He appreciated, stoically, the irony of his inability to staunch Shannon's face from rising before his eyes after the effort he made earlier to recall it. Now the sound of her voice crashed and echoed in his mind.

He stood stiffly, waiting.

"I don't understand." It was Jack's voice. "What do you mean he remembers? If he remembers, why is he still in here?"

"Because," said John Locke as he pushed the door open. "He says he murdered Shannon."

Jack preceded John Locke into the room, his face tight with concern, a small bag in his hand. He approached the standing man. "Sayid, John says your memory is back."

"Yes." He looked straight ahead, refusing to meet Jack's eyes.

"You remember killing Shannon?"

"Yes."

Jack sighed, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck. "How are you sure it's a real memory?"

"He went over the details with me pretty thoroughly," said John Locke. "They're consistent with what you found with her body."

"Yeah?" Jack sounded skeptical. "Watch much TV, John? Lots of forensic experts running around these days. I'm surprised you're one of them, your stance on science being what it is."

"I never said that science didn't have its place, Jack," replied John Locke calmly. "He remembers beating her with a cudgel. You found bark in the skin on her arms, hands, and shoulders. He remembers using his hands to snap the C4? C5? vertebra in her neck. He remembers doing that to her."

Jack frowned, "How about letting him tell me what he remembers? Sayid?"

Sayid swallowed and focused on the doorknob, trying to see it instead of her tear filled eyes. "There was a club. It was thick. It struck her. Repeatedly." he said in a mechanical voice, wishing the vivid images before his eyes would stop. "I wrapped my hands carefully on her neck here," he demonstrated on his own neck. "And I-" his voice wavered then returned full strength. "I exerted pressure sufficient to ..break… to kill."

He felt sick on many levels. That he was person who could hurt someone known dear to him, that he could torture and kill anyone, that he was so craven that his mind shielded him with blankness, that he had to share this shame – all these pointed to one solution.

Jack looked sick as well. He thought for a moment. "How is that you know which vertebra cause asphyxiation? No, how did you know how to break a neck?" He moved so Sayid had to meet his gaze.

There was no answer for that. "I - don't know."

Jack pondered Sayid's recital. "How did you hold the club?" His eyes shone with purpose. Sayid could not look away.

"I do not understand. I held it with my hands." One end was covered with her blood. The side against his palm was irregular with bark, his fingers touching smoothness as he grasped it.

"No. How were you holding it? Like a baseball bat? Like a golf club? With one hand? Two hands? Did she try to run? Stand and take it?

"Baseball bat, Jack? Think he's ever held one?" John Locke narrowed his eyes. "This isn't necessary."

Sayid stopped the discussion. "There was blood on my hands, her hair, her mouth. Her nose was bleeding. She was crying. She was begging me to stop. She was very frightened. Her eyes were wide. It hurt her to move. She screamed when I carried her."

Silence filled the room. Jack and John Locke exchanged tight glances.

"Sayid has requested to be executed for this crime. He prefers," John Locke scratched an eyebrow. "To be shot."

Jack exclaimed angrily that no one was being executed on the island. Sayid listened to the arguments - certainty of guilt, lack of holding facilities, danger to the others in camp, humane treatment of criminals, use of resources - rage around him. He noted that while John Locke presented Sayid's request to die calmly, the bald man did not express his own feelings concerning the act. Jack hotly debated against any such act, his feelings quite clear.

"What's your name?"

The question, shot by Jack, startled Sayid from his reverie.

"Jack," protested John Locke.

"John, there won't be an execution of a man who doesn't know his own name."

"Sayid Jarrah."

Jack's face fell. He looked around the room. A determined expression slowly spread across his face. "What's my name?"

Sayid's eyes slid from side to side, then met Jack's. "I don't know. It does not change what I did."

"Which was what?"

It was too much. Why would the man simply not accept what he knew to be horrible fact? "I murdered Shannon," he shouted, the blood thundering in his ears.

"Why did you kill her?"

"What?" He was not expecting this response. No one had voiced it before this.

"Jack, you're confusing him," interjected John Locke.

"Because he didn't kill Shannon, John," Jack enunciated each word harshly. He pushed his face close to Sayid's. "You think you're remembering? You think you know how you did it? Take me there."

"Sayid wasn't there when we found Shannon," said John.

Jack scowled as he quickly glanced over his shoulder to the man. "If his memories are coming back, he'll know where it is."

"From the beach," replied Sayid coldly. "I followed her from the beach. After she did not return for lunch. After we argued."

"Let's go," said Jack, picking up his bag and stowed it into his backpack. "Show me."

Jack started out the door and down the hall. Sayid fell in step after him. John Locke spun on his heel and headed the other direction.

Jack stopped at a rounded metal door, twisted the large ring, and turned to face Sayid, "Wait a minute. I want your word that you're not going to do something stupid. That you're going to do what I asked." He studied Sayid's face. "Or this madness ends here, with you back in that room." His brow creased as John Locke joined them. "Locke, put that back."

John Locke held a rifle. "The Sayid I know is a man of honor. If his honor demands this sacrifice, I'll do what's necessary."

"Honor? Sacrifice?" Jack's lips compressed. He stared hard at the older man, exhaling heavily. "I want your word," Jack set his shoulders. "Of honor. If one of us disagrees with the soundness of Sayid's …memory, it stops. All three of us have to agree he's there. If you can't do that, this stops here and it stops now."

"I'm not in a hurry to shoot Sayid." John Locke looked hurt.

Jack looked at the rifle. "Yeah. I can see that." He pulled the heavy door open and stepped out into the jungle.

They walked the thirty minutes to the beach in silence. Sayid briefly wondered at the freedom of his hands but the thought was quickly lost in the speeding and repeating images of Shannon. Sayid concentrated on Jack's bobbing pack, keeping them slightly at bay, allowing him to function.

Jack paused as they reached the edge of the beach. A different set of stomach muscles constricted as Sayid looked about the sandy camp. He half expected a new collection of memories to swamp him but was relieved when nothing fresh appeared.

"Can you do it from here?" asked Jack.

"There." Sayid pointed at a spot that was suddenly familiar to him. The images stopped. It was now a clear recollection. He marched a short distance and led the two men into the jungle.

His head felt clear. Moving to the end freed him. He moved as swiftly as Jack and John Locke trailing would permit.

He stopped at the edge of a clearing. The heart in his chest began to pound. He could see her. "Here."

Jack turned to John Locke, who nodded.

"She was here….. when I found her." He saw her face, taut with anger.

Jack stepped closer to Sayid and stood quietly at the shorter man's shoulder.

Sayid stared unseeing at the high grasses. "She wanted me to find her. She wanted to be found."

She was wearing pink. She looked lovely in pink. Her cheeks were pink. He told her that, that her cheeks were pink, like her clothes. He gave her a mango.

It softened her. It usually did when he complimented her. He would wait until she was ready to be softened, he would compliment her, and she would release her anger. It was their way. As short a time as they had been together, they had their way.

It hurt to see her here. In this meadow. Where she died. Where he killed her.

"Tell me, Sayid," urged Jack softly. "I know you didn't kill Shannon."

"We argued over Walt." He furrowed his brow as the face of an unknown child presented itself. "She said that she was going to find him. That she had seen him again.

"I did not believe that she had seen him, that she could find him." He looked at Jack. "Has he been found?"

Jack shook his head, exchanging a glance with John Locke.

Sayid turned his attention to a corner of the grasses, drifting in its direction.

Her smile was light. It was joy. He earned the smile with the mango and pink cheeks. She released her anger and played, childishly, running from him. He gave chase.

He caught her. She wanted him to catch her.

He wished that she was still running.

They kissed. The kiss grew deeper.

They made love.

The happiness of that time pierced him.

"Sayid."

"We decided to stay here," said Sayid softly. "So, I built a fire. It was a poor decision." But he wanted the time with her. Her alone.

He could see her face, the firelight changing it with shadows, as she curled around him, asleep.

Her voice came from the side. He could hear her.

She was angry, calling him names, coarse names, the tears choking the volume, begging him. Please Sayid. Please. Stop. No. No. Please Sayid.

"She was hurt. Badly ….so badly……It hurt her when I touched her. She fought to breathe. Her asthma… but it was her chest…… the sound of fluid…..blood from her mouth….."

He stared without seeing at the ground.

"How did she get hurt, Sayid?" Jack touched Sayid's arm.

She screamed, the agony of the cries flaying him.

She begged. He refused the words.

The words.

Sayid turned to Jack. The words. Her words. He could not live with her words.

"She was dying."

He walked slowly, then sat slowly, for no reason. He did not know this particular spot. But he no longer wanted to be where they made love.

They had fallen asleep, he told Jack. He woke to Shannon shouting. There were people – not from camp. She was struggling with them. They had weapons – primitive weapons, effective. Deadly. He jumped to his feet and raced to her. Except he did not reach her. Some turned from her, others, unseen until that moment, and fell on him. His rage, fear fueled him but not sufficiently. He fell as his shoulder was pierced with a spear-like implement.

He regained consciousness to the sound of Shannon's weak cries.

He crawled the few feet between them. Her face, her pretty face, was as such that he was sick. He tried to assess the damage, tried to employ triage, calm her. His very touch resulted in tiny, quiet, screams, gasps of pain of that tore the breath from his lungs.

John Locke joined them, stood silently near Jack.

He had to get her back to camp, back to Jack, back to the infirmary.

The sound of Shannon's sobs grew weaker though her body strained as if wailing. Each step caused blood to bubble. The blood never stopped. Nothing would stop the blood. He knew first aid – long ago training – not enough. She gasped with each step. Her fingers no longer clutched his arm. She wanted him to stop.

He was still, cradled her gently. Not gently enough. Nothing was enough.

He recognized death in her breaths, at her color, the blood.

She asked him. He lied.

He ran with her again. She started the words.

He refused to answer. He ran further. She cried, and bled, and called him the names.

She begged him to stop. She begged him to listen. He ran.

He listened when she grew quiet.

He eased her to the ground, holding her close, as close as he could. She whispered now, of her love, of her pain. She tried to comfort him with sweet phrases of having love and sustaining memories. She cried for him.

He surrendered to the words. He kissed her softly, touched her hair, her cheek. He murmured his love, carefully placed his hands in position. He ended her pain.

He held her.

When she was cold, he stood and keened, slamming the hands on trees, rocks, always circling back to hold her. For a little while, longer until the stillness of her body shot him to his feet once more.

They sat in silence.

Sayid climbed slowly to his feet. He eyed the rifle loosely held in John Locke's hand. His brown eyes fused with the blue. It would be easier. With the sympathy pouring from John Locke's gaze, he believed it would be done.

"Please lead me to the hatch." He turned to Jack.

"World is safe for another hundred and eight minutes," announced Hurley, cracking his knuckles as he rose from the keyboard. "Time for a shower." He glanced at the quiet man at the bookshelf. "I'll be back, dude. Don't worry about doin' anything. I can't take that long if I try."

He ambled out of the room. "Hey Claire."

She waited until the heavy footfalls stopped. "Did you forget the meeting?"

"The meeting?"

"This is why this organization just isn't going to make it," Claire smiled, faint shadow of uncertainty at the corners. She patted the bottom of Aaron as she held him, swaying in an unconscious maternal rhythm in the entryway. "Amnesiacs forget to write it down. Or they forget to read their calendars."

He watched for a time. The silence was not uncomfortable. "How do you do it?"

"What?" She entered the domed room and sat tentatively onto the odd color couch. She laid the baby on the cushion, gently catching his arms and legs in cupped hands as he waved them about. She peeked at the man, then returned to the game with her child, kissing the bare skin with each catch, murmuring softly sweet, heart felt sounds.

"I thought I would remember – more …. than her death." He crossed and squatted next to the baby. "But I do not." He watched the game, and smiled sadly at the instinctive sounds they made.

"Too bad you didn't keep a diary," she remarked. "But even then you're not really remembering. You're reading about this person who is you. But it stops Sawyer from saying that we've had a thing." As Aaron snagged a finger and dragged it to his mouth, she studied Sayid. "I've had flashes, like Jack said I might but they're more frustrating than helpful. A little scary. So I don't have any big stirring words to help."

"I was not expecting big stirring words." His smile was fleeting. Without thought, he stroked the plump white leg kicking near him. "I do not know what to do…. now." The tunnel of null was breached but still holding.

"You could go back to the beach. Hurley told me Locke showed Ana that stick he found….where …Shannon," she trailed off, bending to buzz a kiss against the wiggling baby's belly. "People know for sure now." She straightened and looked at him. "Dr Arzt used to say some people know it's a rock when it hits them."

He looked at her blankly, and plopped to floor.

She sighed. "Dr Arzt was this sort of know-it-all kind of guy…..predicted a monsoon to start a few weeks back ….blew up when Jack and Locke and Kate… never mind. He drove Charlie crazy." An obvious sore topic as her eyes grew pensive and dropped to her child.

"How is Charlie?" Even now his stomach curled at the name, the face evoked.

"Aaron and I are going back to the beach today." It sounded like a non-sequitur, but Sayid knew it was not. "Locke says he's really trying this time." She lightly stroked Aaron's head. "I think Aaron's missing him. I miss him," she said softly. "But I didn't know about it the first time and this isn't exactly a shining example of stability, is it? We've been here under two months and he's on his second rehab. What kind of influence will he be on Aaron?"

She flushed. "I sound like totally hatstand, don't I? A few kangaroos loose in the top paddock. Smile, Sayid, I'm being colorfully Australian."

He smiled. For her.

"Well," she bent at the waist and gathered the boy. "I guess I should finish getting ready then. Jack's taking me back when Michael and Cindy come for their shift."

Sayid stood as she rose from the couch.

Claire hesitated, then plunged ahead. "They went back .. to where Shannon thought she …saw Walt. Locke, Michael, and Jin. They didn't find anything. I thought you should know. Someone might mention it and it's easier not to …show when you have fair warning."

"Thank you."

"You ought to go back to the beach. Hiding in here doesn't help." She was swaying once more. "Talk to Jack." She urged. "You can visit us. We like company." Claire disappeared down the corridor.

He sat on the couch and watched the timer count down.

As Hurley bustled back into the room, he decided. He would take Claire's advice: it would be good to hear the surf, feel the sun. Possibly remember.


End file.
